A Master of Suspense

"We're different," Tone confesses, failing to acknowledge that he's not devoted much time to either party's true desires. "I've got all the time in the world, but I feel I'm wasting yours." He takes a sip from his bottle of dark lager and ponders the pending response. Its courier isn't there to spew it. He's talking to the walls. His overly creative mind would normally run rampant with possibilities, but the alcohol's served its purpose in that senses and brain cells have been successfully numbed for the evening. And to think he once foolishly yearned for the traps of drunkenness and monogamy, though not in that order.

Tone takes another liberating gulp. He's starting to remember why he preferred to drink alone when it used to flow like water in his dusty, whitewashed rooms. He's starting to miss no one but the kid who could've turned out differently had he known his full potential. Tone was a fan of nostalgia, especially when it involved former selves. Even the regrets didn't make it worth forgetting: Tone could've been a contender someday. At the end of thirsty, self-destructive nights there were only facts like that one on which to cling for dear life. Tone was a meager realist. He knew which truths could save him. The list was short, but it was there, much like his temper, his vision, his cock.

The dog scratches desperately at the door between his room and the next. Tone breaks his stride as the seventh beer is cracked. If Jodie were here to see him now she'd shake her head and wonder. How could a man so hellbent on living sentence himself to a life of confinement? Even only children need their time in the playground. Tone's problem was that he didn't know how to jump off the swings when the sun was setting. He'd ride it out until no one else was left. He'd done it before, over and over again to the point of an ailing stomach and ringing ears. There was no margin of error once the learning curve was eroded. A conscious declaration to ignore past mistakes prevented him from making more healthy decisions. "It's not conducive," they tended to remind him. "Conducive to what?" he wanted to ask. They never finished their sentences. They never finished anything but that which he hoped would last a lifetime. He was still naive enough to believe in forever. It'd be a few years before words like that would lose meaning. It'd be a few more Jodies before he'd pack it in for good and resign himself to an existence of sporadic carpentry gigs and lonely conversations with strangers while walking the dog. There were worse fates than that. At least becoming his father wasn't one of them anymore. There are people who learn your name because they want it. There are people who learn your name because they want to add it to their lists.

Tone almost knocks his brew off the nightstand while grasping for his ringing telephone, a lifeline tossed from a raft. At this hour it could only be one person. The others got their respective hints one way or another. He saw to that, though the means and ends weren't equal. "Hello," he chokes into the receiver, beer breath bouncing off the plastic and back up into his nostrils. "How was your night?" he asks ever timidly.

"I don't want to sleep alone. Come on over and I'll tell you all about it," Jodie suggests from her end of the line. Tone's not one to argue when a beautiful woman wants his company. He walks to the kitchen to pour what's left of his lager down the drain. There will be other nights to over-analyze the fare on the pity train. Reality seems a better bet than hypotheticals this time. He grabs it before it can pull its head back into its shell and swim away.

The round is won, but not thanks to him. The wrath of Modern Woman is surpassed only by her mercy. There are times to beg, borrow, and steal. Tone, like a reformed criminal worthy of his salvation, knows the difference.